


One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

by pineapplebreads



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: After Grindelwald, Age Difference, Angst, Canon Compliant, Coma, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, Injured Graves, Lots of Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 05:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplebreads/pseuds/pineapplebreads
Summary: It’s been nearly two months, and Graves still hasn’t woken from the injuries sustained from his second battle with Grindelwald. There’s the whisper of fear that he never will, and Credence doesn’t know what he will do if Graves is really gone.A story of how Credence and Graves fell in love and how Credence is about to lose him.





	One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dontyoudarestiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontyoudarestiles/gifts).



> A fic written for one of my favorite people, [dontyoudarestiles](http://dontyoudarestiles.tumblr.com), as part of our own little holiday/ birthday trade. Original prompt: very, very sad with a happy ending. I hope this delivers! ❤

Surrendering to wakefulness never gets any easier. Credence wakes to the taste of tears and sorrow in his mouth and does not have the strength to sit up. The desire to burrow further beneath his blankets is near overwhelming, and he draws them over his head to block the sun out for just a moment longer.

He wants nothing more than to stay in the liminal space between wakefulness and dreams, where everything is scattered light and blurry grey memories. Where nothing is real. Where nothing hurts.

He doesn't know if it's been hours or minutes since he's decided to continue to lay in bed, but he stays with his legs curled up against his chest until the blankets become stifling. The tight curve of his body only reminds him of how empty the bed feels.

He finally breaks free of his blankets with a gasp, drawing the cold air of the room into his lungs with sharp stuttering breaths that quicken the beat of his heart. The tears prick at his eyes again, hot and demanding and before he knows it, they're running down his face in burning lines.

Credence wipes the tears away with a harsh hand. It trembles when it falls back down to his side as he lets the familiar flickering anger spark anew within his chest and allows it to warm his belly. His numb fingers tingle with feeling again by the time he drags himself out of his cocoon of warmth and shuffles his way to the kitchen.

His feet feel leaden and heavy, each step a conscious effort and the handful of meters feel like an infinite stretch. He thinks it might've taken him an hour to take ten steps.

The kettle screeches across the iron surface of the stove, and even now, years after Percival taught him the basic spells, Credence still prefers to do things the no-maj way. He fills the kettle by hand under the tap and lights the stove with a match. The box of matchsticks is nearly empty. He'll have to buy more.

Percival would've come up behind him, a warm weight along his back, perfect slot, two puzzle pieces, and laughed. “Incendio,” he would’ve said gently. “We learned this one on the first day.” He would've clicked his fingers to make embers spring to life in the iron potbelly, cheery golden sparks jumping behind the grate and wrapped his arms around Credence as the fire begins to warm the small space.

Credence's back feels cold.

He resolutely doesn't think about the way Percival would've draped a sweater across his shoulders and curled his arms around him. Would've cast a warming charm over them both and steered him towards the fireplace. Would've pulled him close on the couch and drawn him in for a kiss.

The tears come again and he hates himself for letting them fall. He can feel the jagged splinters of his heart jabbing into the flesh of his ribs like so many broken bones, making his breath shallow and ragged.

It's so pathetic. He knows, he _knows_. Good things do not last for people like him. He doesn't deserve them. But even now, he's weak and sheds pathetic tears when everything gets taken away from him. He never learns.

_Simple, stupid boy_.

A sharp rapping knock at his door startles Credence out of his thoughts. The quickly muttered Wingardium Leviosa is barely fast enough to catch the fall of his cup as it slips through his lax fingered grip.

Tina is standing on the other side of the door with a box of Kowalski pastries in her hands and a frown furrowing her brows. She thrusts the box into Credence's arms as she walks in.

“You haven't eaten again,” she declares in lieu of a greeting. “You look skinnier than usual.” Her tone is accusatory.

Credence sighs, not wanting to have the same argument again. He tucks the box of pastries in the ice box without looking at the contents and busies himself again at the stove. He buys two minutes with the kettle as he fixes Tina a cup of tea.

He struggles to empty his mind and school his expression into some semblance of neutrality before he turns back around. He cannot let Tina see the grief and bitterness that still lingers. She has enough of her own to deal with, she does not need the burden of his.  

“I'm fine, Tina,” Credence says as he hands her a cup. He dredges up a smile from nowhere and it feels ill fitting, cracked at the corners and tilted to one side.

Tina hums into her tea as she settles at his kitchen table and doesn't reply. Her eyes track his every jittery move, watching silently as he putters around, needing the constant motion to keep himself calm now that he's crawled out of bed. He needs the constant distraction to keep his mind blank, to keep the anger from swallowing him whole.

“Please sit down, Credence,” Tina finally sighs after watching him pace the length of his kitchen for the upteenth time. “You're wearing a hole in your floorboards.”

“I'm fine,” Credence replies, just on this side of snappish. He can feel the anger and sadness building in his chest alongside the anticipation of what's to come. There's the crest of anxiety swelling, ballooning in the hollow between his ribs and pushing the air from his lungs, the flavor of it burning the back of his throat.

The cocktail of emotions taste acrid and thick, gritty and mealy like the gruel he remembers from childhood. He's nearly vibrating with the intensity of every thought that flickers in his mind like a no-maj film, shutter clicks of black and white. Visions and moods that swing him from one low end to another.

“It's almost time to go,” he says.

Tina nods slowly, straightening her coat as she rises from her chair and watches with an sorrowful expression as Credence comes to stand beside her. He winds a familiar blue scarf around his neck, burying his face in the wool but the old scent is long gone. Another loss.

“Are you ready?” Tina asks softly, gently.

Credence shudders and steels himself, shakes his head. _Of course not_. “Ready,” he says aloud. With a small _pop,_ they’re gone and the apartment is empty.

It is the last day.

-

The news comes in January.

Percival has been working later and later by the day, coming home well past midnight and waking again at dawn.

Credence worries he'll run himself to the ground, but he knows there's nothing he can do to stop him. This isn't just an obsession. This is a need, instinctive and internal, coiled tight around every fiber of Percival's muscles and thoughts, and Credence has always, always known. This will come first. It _has_ to.

It is nearly two in the morning when Percival finally comes home, Apparting into their apartment with a low _woosh_ that sets the wards jingling merrily. Credence takes one look at him and knows before Percival says a single word by the furrow in his brow and the stress tensing his jaw.

“It finally happened?” Credence asks. A question he doesn't want answered. “He's been found?”

Percival nods, his coat and scarf falling off his shoulders and hanging themselves on the hook by the door with a wave of his hand. He reaches immediately for Credence, strong arms wrapping around his shoulders.

Credence burrows his nose in the dip between Percival's neck and shoulder, breathing deep the familiar scent there: oak and bergamot and old parchment. He winds his arms around Percival's waist, doesn't want to let go, and it feels like he's holding on for dear life. Whether it’s for his own or for Percival's, Credence doesn't yet know.

“Theseus will be with you?” Credence asks, needing to know.

“Yes,” Percival replies. “And our best Aurors too. We’ll be fine. We can take him.” Credence frowns at his flippant tone and doesn’t reply for a long time. There's no comfort in knowing Percival is walking into what feels like a suicide mission, even if he will have his best men at his back.

“Let me come too,” Credence says when Percival finally pulls away. He reaches again, almost frantic, draws Percival back until their foreheads touch. His heart nearly breaks at the sight of the animal fear and feral wildness he finds in Percival's eyes, the hunter and the hunted, even as he grins with false confidence.

Credence's hand trembles against the nape of Percival's neck as he draws him in. “ _Please,_ ” he insists.

Percival sighs and closes his eyes, the smile slipping from his lips. He takes a step back and doesn't say anything and Credence _knows_ with gutsharp certainty. He watches with bated breath as Percival shivers, his composure crumpling as his shoulders droop and his head bows in defeat. He shakes his head, his hands shaking where they grip Credence’s hips. He breathes deep, a sharp shudder.

“Don’t do this,” Credence says softly. “Please, Percival,” he begs, the desperation creeping into his voice without permission. He edges in closer, doesn’t want even a single inch between them. His hands are shaking when he raises them to cup Percival’s jaw, trembling fingers rasping against the stubble there. “I'm strong enough. I can do my part. I can—”

“ _Credence_ ,” the harsh loudness of Percival’s voice cuts off Credence's pleas. “We’ve talked about this. You're the one he wants. He's waiting for you to do this, to walk willingly into his traps. I cannot risk this. I cannot risk your capture. I cannot risk your safety.”

_I cannot risk losing you_ , Credence knows he isn't saying.

_You won't. You won't. I'm stronger now. I won't let him harm us anymore. I won't let him break us like this. He already hurt us once. He won’t have the chance to do it again. I won't let him—_ but he knows Percival won't listen. He's shaking his head again, the sharp line of his jaw set in stone cold determination.

So Credence does the only thing he can think of, closing the space between them again, his lips desperately seeking Percival’s in a harsh clash of mouths. Percival is equally frantic, his grip on Credence’s hips bruisingly tight as he pulls him close.

With a low murmur, Percival Apparates them both into their bedroom, too entwined with one another to make even the short trek on foot through the apartment. Credence feels the heat building in his belly, warming his chest and pushing up in his throat as he clutches desperately at Percival, not ever wanting to let go.

He can feel where his fingertips dig into the skin of Percival's nape and the responding clutch of Percival's hands at the crest of his waist, tugging insistently at his shirt. Finally losing patience, Percival Vanishes their clothes and Credence gasps softly as he's tipped backwards onto their bed.

“I don't know what I would do if he got you, sweetheart,” Percival is murmuring against his neck and Credence's heart breaks. “I can never let that happen. I'll never be able to live with myself. I know you're strong. You're so strong, my love, but he cannot even be given the _chance_ of coming near you. I'll die before he hurts you again—”

And it's too much. Credence silences him with another kiss, overwhelmed. This feels too much like finality, like this might be the last time he'll ever have Percival in his arms, and Credence _needs_ him like he's never known to have needed anything else before.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Credence murmurs as he finally sinks down on Percival's cock. The thick slick stretch of it pushing into him nearly unravels him, but it's too slow, it's not enough, not with Percival carefully holding him back. Credence needs to feel all of him, and he bears down insistently, demanding every hotly burning inch until he's fully seated.

“God, I love you so much,” Credence breathes and he hears the answering rumble as he moves desperately above Percival. He takes what he can get, not knowing if he'll have this again.

“Just come back to me,” he says after Percival falls asleep, whispered in the quiet dark. _Finish this and come back to me. I can no longer live without you_ , and the next morning, Percival is gone.

-

The visits never get any easier. The long walk down the halls of St Agatha get increasingly more painful by the step, each passing meter a new weight added to Credence's invisible burden.

Tina walks beside him now, her brow furrowing with concern as she glances periodically at him. He knows she wants to ask, ask how he's feeling, ask if he's okay, ask if he's ready to go through it all again. It doesn't take a Legilimens to read Tina.

_I'm fine,_ he doesn't say. He ignores the looks and tries his best to keep calm. It will do nobody any good to see his turmoil.

It is day forty-five and when Credence pushes open the room door at the end of the hall, Percival is still not awake. Each time Credence sees him lying deathly still amongst the mountain of white hospital sheets, it feels like a sucker punch to his gut and his breath is stolen from him anew.

The sight of unmoving Percival is jarring and during the first days, Credence had to hold his sobs behind his hand. It _hurts_ to see Percival like this. It's only slightly better now, the pain dulled just the slightest because the wounds have long since healed and all that's left are the ones the mediwizards cannot fix.

There's the empty space beneath the blankets where his left leg once was, the welted keloid ropes twisted in his hands and arms, the mangled mess of the right side of his once handsome face, the sunken socket where he once had an eye.  

They're all things Credence wish had happened to him instead of Percival. If he could've taken all of the pain and injury into himself to spare Percival this, he would not have given the choice a second thought. If he could _kill_ the person who did this to him, he would let the long dormant Obscurus take over his body and fly wispsmoke out to hunt.

Even now, the urge to lash out in rage is near overwhelming. It sneaks like smoke around the edges of his vision, greying out the edges until all he can focus on are his own tumultuous thoughts. His fingers itch to to curl around Grindelwald’s throat and let his claws sink in until the life drains from the vile man who had tried to take everything from him. The monster sleeping inside of him bays for blood.

He breathes deep through his nose to calm the rapid clip of his speeding heartbeat and Tina's hand coming down to rest on his shoulder is grounding, keeps him in the present until the faded grey edges of his vision recede and he can concentrate on Percival again.

Credence takes the familiar chair beside Percival's bed with a heavy defeated sigh and reaches for one of his hands. If not for the warmth of his skin, Credence would think him a corpse. His hand feels lifeless beneath Credence's touch, the skin waxy and pallid. There is no movement, no reaction. Not even a twitch of his fingers.

In the peripheral of his awareness, Credence hears Tina muttering about going to get Dr. Egol for updates and he almost laughs. The bitterness wells up again.

Of course there are no updates, it doesn't take a mediwizard to tell him that. He nods anyways, knowing it hurts her just as much as it hurts him to see Percival this way and she wants to be there even less than he does. But Tina is a good friend, his anchor and support now, and he can never hope to repay her for her kindness.

He hears the door close softly behind Tina and he sighs as he slumps against the back of his chair. Percival’s hand in his is a warm weight that does little to keep his bitterness away. The movement of his thumb against Percival’s knuckles catches on the ring on his third finger at every downstroke.

He thinks about the stretch of years ahead of him without Percival and the decades that yawn before him, endless and lonely. The thought of not having Percival by his side for the rest of his life almost unravels him and he has to bite back his cry of anguish and frustration.

_You said forever,_ Credence wants to scream, _so wake up. Don't leave me here alone. Please, just wake up._

But that's trite isn't it? It's pathetic and useless and changes absolutely nothing. Because Percival is still unresponsive, lying motionless on the bed, and everything inside of Credence _hurts_.

The pain of seeing Percival like this hurts so much more than the phantom memories of whipswitches against his palms, the metal belt buckles biting into the knobs of his spine. Even the memories of the Aurors blasting him apart and the feeling of a Cruciatus lingering in his bones are nothing compared to this.

Credence swallows down his pain and settles in for a long day. He raises Percival's hand to press a lingering kiss against the knuckles, murmuring, “hello, darling.”

-

They get married in September. The ceremony was just supposed to be the two of them and the Goldstein sisters. Somehow, it became a large party.

Jacob had heard about it and insisted on making them a cake. “You can't get married without a cake,” he had declared and scurried off back into his kitchen before either of them could protest. Really, it wasn't necessary. But Jacob would hear none of that.

And then Newt had heard and promised to rush back to New York from Ukraine where he was chasing ironbellies. “It's hatching season and this is the first time I've actually managed to track down a mother that didn't immediately try to kill me when I got close enough to observe the eggs. But of course this is much more important and I'll be on the next ship back,” he had written and any answering protests were subsequently either undelivered or willfully ignored.

And then Percival's old friend and Newt’s brother Theseus had heard and insisted on “giving Perce away. You couldn't possibly think you were doing this without your best friend, were you, Graves? Oh you sly dog, I absolutely _must_ witness this union between you and the person who finally managed to win Percival I-Am-Going-To-Die-Alone Graves's cold dead heart.”

And then Seraphina had heard and offered with a wry smirk and quiet affection softening her stoic demeanor to conduct their ceremony. “It will not be officially official,” she had informed them with a touch of sadness coloring her tone, _because it's against the law_ , she doesn't say, “but at least I can be your Bonder.”

It is the happiest day of Credence's life, even more so than the day Percival proposed and more so than the day he worked up the courage to ask if Percival would have dinner with him. And much more so than any day he had ever had before his life with Percival.

He marries Percival in their living room surrounded by their friends as Seraphina casts the modified Unbreakable Vow over their joined hands.

“Husband,” Credence murmurs later that night after everyone has gone home. A word he never would have dared to hope for even in his wildest dreams, would never have dared to want in the cold rotting wood walls of Mary Lou's church. He hadn't ever dared to think he could have, and could _keep_ something as wonderful as this, someone as wonderful as Percival.

Credence falls onto their bed laughing, the joy bubbling up inside of him until it spills over, golden and bright. He pulls Percival down over him, dragging him in close. He can't get enough of the feeling of Percival in his arms, the warm weight settling over him, the solid presence that feels like safety and home. A physical counterpart to the Percival shaped puzzle piece that slots perfectly in the empty spot between cradle of his ribs where Credence will keep him forever. For better, or for worse.

“Husband,” Percival replies, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates against the curve of Credence's neck. Percival presses a kiss there before leaning up on his elbows to look at Credence. His dark eyes are soft in the dim light of the incandescent lamp glow. Credence is stunned by the sweetness he finds there, still barely able to believe that someone can look at him this way.

The curve of Percival's smile is gentle and so full of love, it snatches Credence's breath away and electrifies his heart into a galloping thump. He thinks it's beating so fast and so loud, Percival must hear it too. His own answering grin is slowly traced by Percival's reverent fingers.  

“Only in name,” Credence says softly, feeling the familiar pang of sadness that this will not be recognized by anyone but them.

“It doesn't matter,” Percival insists. “All that is mine is yours. All of me belongs to you. Now and forever. I love you, Credence.” He still has that familiar unreadable but infinitely soft look in his eyes that never fails to make Credence's heart stutter in his chest and the breath catch in his throat.

“I love you too, Mr. Graves,” Credence murmurs, the giddiness of joy returning with his breathless wonder. He can never get enough of Percival saying those three simple words. His entire world in that very second is Percival and the feeling of his palms reaching up to cup the curve of his jaw.

“And I you, Mr. Graves,” Percival replies, and finally, finally he leans down to press a lingering kiss to Credence's waiting lips.

Percival tastes like champagne and oranges, indulgently luxurious and endlessly golden. Credence can't get enough of him, doesn't think he ever will and he reminds himself, _how lucky_.

Credence tries to remember what patience feels like when the kisses travel from his lips to his neck, and he arches up eagerly for Percival, wanting more. Always more. He's fumbling clumsily at his buttons, feels the pop of thread and hears the clatter as several of them tear from his shirt, lost to the crevices in the floorboards forever. Percival laughs above him until Credence silences him with another insistent kiss.

“C’mon, darling,” Credence begs against Percival's lips, tugging at his lapels. “ _Please_.”

As always, Percival understands without words, and with a quiet murmur, he Vanishes their clothes. Credence sighs as they're finally pressed skin to skin, arching up to move in closer, desperate for Percival.

“God, I love you so much, sweetheart,” Percival murmurs when he pushes inside, a familiar thick weight that fills all of Credence and he thinks he could come on that sensation alone. He feels so full and complete and it only takes Percival a handful of thrusts to find the spot that coils tight the heat in Credence's belly and summons a flurry of sparks behind his vision.

Credence feels absolutely out of his mind, drunk on the fullness and stretch, aching with love and adoration for this man who is his everything. _His husband_ , he thinks wonderingly before another thrust whisks all higher thinking away.

His vision becomes narrow and stardark, endless and focused and all that's left is Percival. He can no longer tell where he begins and Percival ends, everything all but forgotten. This is his entire world. Percival is his entire world. Percival is the lodestar that guides him home, and Credence would give him anything, has given him everything and still wishes there is more to offer.

But for now, he can barely do much more than cling tight to his husband (his _husband_ ), nails digging half-moons into the curve of his back as he gasps a litany of, “Percival, Percival, Percival,” into the crook of his shoulder.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart,” Percival whispers as he comes. Credence thinks he can live in this exact moment forever, with Percival everywhere inside of him and above him, beloved and perfect and Credence gasps as he shivers and follows, spilling in the infinitesimal space between their bodies.

_Lucky_ , Credence thinks again. He's so very lucky.

-

“The way that the curse hit Mr. Graves, it pierced his brain after traveling through his eye and damaged the frontal lobe. If the spell had hit him to the left even by a couple of millimeters, he would've died instantly. I suppose he was lucky,” Dr Egol says.

_Lucky_ , Credence thinks bitterly, looking at the bruise-marled side of his husband's face. The empty socket of his eye. The freshly Healed lacerations braceleting his arms. The crown of blood tangled at his temples. The empty space of where he once had a leg.

_Lucky._ Such a meaningless, condescendingly placating word. Credence had felt lucky, before, but he doesn't feel particularly lucky now.

“We healed as much of the damage as we can, and we’ve put him on all of the necessary life support spells to sustain him. His condition will remain stable but we don't know for sure how he might be when he wakes,” Dr Egol continues. “We do not know how the curse might have affected his brain. We will have to see.”

_If he wakes,_ Credence knows he isn’t saying.

“However, is no reason at all for him not to wake. He could sit up any day now,” Dr. Egol adds with false cheer. Lies. Empty consolations.

It's been six days. _Percival should have woken already_ , no one says.

Credence smiles tightly, a mechanical stretch of his lips and thanks the doctor, wishing everything would simply be done. He's too tired to listen to more of the same. It doesn't take a mediwizard to tell him how hopeless Percival's situation is, and how little hope they have.  

Dr. Egol looks as though he has more to say but with another look at Credence's face, his mouth snaps shut and he nods. He leaves.

Credence's knees buckle from beneath him as all of the energy rushes out of his body and he all but collapses. He sighs and sinks heavily back into his chair by Percival's bed.

“Oh, darling,” Credence whispers, his voice cracking on the last syllable. He struggles and tries in vain to keep the useless tears at bay. “What are we going to do?”

-

They read Percival's will to him on a dreary, grey Friday afternoon, day fifty-five. Credence sits stiff spined in their attorney’s office, trying his best not to scream.

His fingers tap restlessly against the arm of his chair, an unsteady jittery rhythm that stutters and restarts every so often. His eyes dart back and forth between the heavy velvet drapes and the wood paneling on the walls before settling reluctantly on the man in front of him. He tries his best to sit through the whole thing before he's unable to stand it anymore and finally interrupts.

“Percival is _not_ dead,” Credence barely manages through gritted teeth.

The look Mr. Cruz gives him is one part annoyance and two parts pity. “This is only for precautionary measures, Mr. Barebone—”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence corrects firmly, his cold tone brooking no room for argument, even as he trembles with uncertainty and rage.

Mr. Cruz purses his lips into a thin line and doesn't say anything for a long time. “Mr—Graves,” he finally says after an awkward stiff pause. The way he says it makes Credence's jaw tighten. “I do not presume to speak on behalf of my clients but I have known Percival Graves for a long time and in this situation, I fully believe he would want his— _partner_ to be cared for in the event of his demise.”

Credence doesn't know if the chair is trembling because he is shaking so much, or if it is only shaking in his imagination but the intensity of the rage he feels at Mr. Cruz’s words is one he hasn't felt since Mary Lou.

“I'm not sure how else I can explain this to you in a way you can understand, Mr. Cruz,” Credence begins slowly, “but Percival is _not demised_.”

The look Mr. Cruz returns is one of clear annoyance now. He sighs, a huff through his nose that ruffles his handlebar mustache. “I know this, Mr. Bareb—Mr. Graves. And I know it is a very difficult time for you, as well as everyone else involved. However, his other family have requested his will be read and carried out, and that they will proceed with the next steps in accordance to his… condition. They feel that it may be in everyone's best interest to move forward at this point. There is no reason to continue to suffer.”

“His other family?” Credence asks, perplexed. His chest feels hot and cold all at once and his fingertips are numb. “He has no other family.”

Another gusty sigh and the annoyance switches back to pity. “His father’s brother will be arriving from Ireland within the next week. At that point, he will decide what to do about Mr. Graves's condition. It has been nearly two months. Mr. Graves’s uncle shall decide if it might be in everyone's best interest to… let him go.”

The wooden arm of the chair splinters beneath Credence's hand. “He can't do that. He has no right—”

“Unfortunately, he does,” Mr. Cruz interrupts, muttering a quick Reparo under his breath to fix the chair. Annoyance again, “as Mr. Graves's last remaining blood family.”

“But—”

“I'm very sorry, Mr. Barebone,” Mr. Cruz says, looking truly contrite for the first time during the meeting. “But your union does not stand in the eyes of MACUSA, not even when Bonded by the Madam President herself such as you were. A modified Unbreakable Vow is not a true Marriage Bond and will not uphold in the court of Magical Law. You have no claim to Mr. Graves, aside from the estate he has allocated to you in his will. Mr. Lancelot Aengus Graves will be arriving in New York on Wednesday.”

-

Percival proposes on a Wednesday in January, on an ice cold night with snow falling in silent white flakes all around them as they walk through Central Park. The sky is pitch dark above them, nary a star above shining through the haze of city smog. There is only the dim glow of street lamps dotting the side of the park to guide their path.

A horse drawn carriage trundles past them, trampling the fresh snow underfoot, tossing up a flurry of flakes as it rolls past. The riders laugh, merry and happy, and Credence smiles with them, glad of their joy.

He looks to his own, reaches bravely for Percival's hand in the cold dark where no one would see them on this small path and twines their fingers together. The tangle is made clumsy by the leather walls of their gloves, but it is enough, and Credence steps closer to Percival's side.

They had come from the oakwood warmth of Percival's office, working late again, heads bowed together over documents and texts. Every so often, Percival would lift his head from his work and pull Credence in for a smiling kiss despite his protests, “Percival, we’ll have to leave even later if we keep procrastinating like this,” and yet, he would lean eagerly into every soft press of lips.

It was nearly midnight before they left MACUSA, the offices long emptied and the halls quiet. The streets were empty and quiet too as they strolled leisurely out of Woolworth, down past City Hall where Percival had pulled them into a narrow alley and after a quick kiss, Apparated them both away.

Credence had expected to be whisked home as always, and was a little surprised when Percival brought them to the entry of Central Park.

“Let's take a walk, darling,” Percival had said, reaching out to adjust the knot of Credence's scarf, fingers lingering at the edge where the wool touches the skin of his neck. “It's a lovely night, and I would like a bit of air.”

“Sure,” Credence had agreed, feeling slightly perplexed but he would follow Percival anywhere, and so he did.

Snow begins to fall some time into their walk, following one of the many little winding paths through the park until they're nearly at the pond. Fat, white flakes drift lazily from the sky, little feathery drops that speckle the dark wool of their coats and dot their hair and lashes with cold wetness.

They're by the Gapstow Bridge when Percival pauses in his stride, pulling Credence flush against him as they lean against the stone. Credence hears the soft murmur of a Notice Me Not before Percival is kissing him, his heart and chest warming quickly from the kiss that makes him feel hot all over.

“What's gotten into you today?” Credence asks softly, wonderingly when they part. Percival isn't usually so expressive, especially not in public when there is a chance they might be seen, but Credence isn't complaining. He's rather enjoying this new affection and he presses another kiss to the corner of Percival's lips before he can think Credence is possibly opposing this new development.

“I just—,” Percival cuts himself off abruptly. His hand is cupping the curve of Credence's jaw, thumb stroking along the edge and Credence yearns for the warmth of his skin instead of the cold leather of his gloves. “I just love you so much,” Percival finally says, his eyes whisky dark and molasses warm in the dim lamplight.

“I love you too,” Credence replies, arching close for another kiss. And another. “Very, very much.”

At his words, Percival seems to gather himself and before Credence fully realizes what's happening, Percival is pulling away. He's kneeling down on one knee, and there’s a glint of gold in his hand, and all Credence can think about is, _oh, that's his bad knee, the one Grindelwald broke four years ago, he shouldn't lean on that, the snow will get on his pants, they're going to be soaked—_

Credence barely hears the words Percival is saying, but he knows what they mean because when he raises his shaking hand to his trembling mouth, the corner of it is already wet with tears.

The answer is yes.

-

Credence cannot even bring himself to hate Lancelot Aengus Graves. He wishes desperately that he could so he may have someone to blame when they finally Incantatem Finito each of Percival's life sustaining spells, but he can't find the anger anymore.

Lancelot Graves invites Credence to the Plaza Hotel for high tea the day after he lands in New York. The Palm Court is bustling during the afternoon rush, the clink and clatter of silverware and dishes and buzzing conversation creates a steady hum that builds and builds. Sunlight streams brightly from the skylight overhead, filtered through the colored panes of stained glass far above them, up in the rafters of the soaring ceiling.

Their table is in a quiet corner, tucked between tall palm fronds and an enormous arching window that overlooks Central Park. Credence can see the little path where Percival had bent on one knee that cold winter night, uncaring of the snow and slush melting into the wool of his trousers, a small gold ring in his hand and a question on the curve of his lips, and they had been so, _so_ happy—

Credence twists the ring on his finger round and round as he returns his attention back to Lancelot Graves. Lancelot is an old man, wizen and grey, sharply dressed in black. He does not look unkind, Credence doesn't think. He looks sympathetic and Credence can see the same echoing pain in Lancelot’s face, the agony of a loved one hurt.

And for a brief moment, Credence thinks maybe there's a chance, that Lancelot might understand and wouldn't ask for the unaskable. Credence is desperate for it to be so. He would willingly beg on bended knee and bowed head, but in another moment, the fleeting thought is gone as Lancelot speaks.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Credence.” Lancelot's voice is deeper than he had expected, a low rumble that is barely audible above the din of the restaurant. “Percival spoke often and fondly of you.”

Credence is surprised. _He has never mentioned you_ , he doesn't want to say. He doesn't know what it could possibly mean that Percival would hide away his own family. “Thank you,” he murmurs, unsure of what else to say. “It's unfortunate we met in such circumstances.”

“Indeed,” Lancelot intones solemnly. He hasn't touched his tea yet, but he reaches over to refill Credence's cup. “I know Percival has never mentioned me, lad, no need to look so contrite. Percival never much liked to speak of family,” he chuckles darkly. “I was quite sorry I wasn't able to make the trip over for your Bonding, you must forgive me, but my health isn't what it used to be.”

Credence nods. He sees the silver cane next to Lancelot's seat. “I'm glad you're here now,” he says, unsure if he actually means those words, “to see Percival.”

Lancelot laughs, a loud hearty boom from deep within his chest. “No you're not, lad,” he says when the last of his guffaws fade back into silence. “We both know why I'm here and what must be done.”

“There's still hope—”

“No,” Lancelot says quietly, but firmly. He shakes his head and it feels like finality. “I think you know, as well as I do, that Percival would rather die than to never wake. He would never want to wake and no longer be himself or not have all of his facilities. I think, lad, in this case, it will be a kindness to let him go.”

“No,” Credence says vehemently. “ _No_. I know he’s still in there. He’s going to wake—”

“It’s been nearly two months.”

Credence hates the pity he sees in Lancelot’s eyes. The same pity that echoes in Dr. Egol, in Mr. Cruz, in Tina, in Queenie, in Jacob, in Newt, in Theseus, in Seraphina. He hates it, he doesn’t want the pity.

“It’s been nearly two months,” Lancelot repeats. “It’s time to let him go, Credence.”

“What would change your mind on this?” Credence asks, desperate now.

Lancelot pauses for a moment, tilting his head to the side with a contemplative look before the pity settles back into the creases of his face. “It’s not a matter of changing my mind,” he finally says. “I wish, just as much as you, that this does not have to be the case, but we must let Percival go. There is little hope of him waking, and this will be a mercy for him. This is not a matter of comforting ourselves with false hope of his condition. This is us putting what he would've wanted first.

“He would not have wanted to go on this way, Credence. Percival would not want to be helpless. Trust me when I say this pains me far more, to have to end the Graves line this way.”

_Percival would’ve kept fighting_ , is _still fighting_ , Credence wants to scream. _He would never have given up on any of us, but you’re giving up on him. I won’t. I will never give up on him._ His teacup is shaking in his grip and he settles it back onto the saucer with a loud _clank_ lest it shatters in his hand.

Credence startles when Lancelot reaches across the table and touches the ring on his finger. It glows white before settling back into its original gold color, the Graves family crest engraved in the spot where Lancelot’s finger had touched. It glows faintly for another moment before the crest disappears and the gold band is smooth once more.

The ring had always responded in the same way when Percival touched it, but Credence could never get the Graves crest to appear. It only serves to remind him how he is not truly a Graves and never will be.

He snatches his hand back from Lancelot, but the point has been made. He has no claim over Percival, and as sad as Lancelot looks, Credence will only have the rest of the week with his husband. Three more days. Until. _Until._

It is day fifty-seven.

-

Percival is so handsome like this, his eyes pellucid amber in the morning light. Credence strokes his thumb through the sandpaper rasp of morning beard, purple blue in the dim glow. His hand is white pale against the deep tan of Percival's skin, fingers pressing from the dip of his chin to the slope of his jaw, following up to tangle in the silver black of his hair.

_I love you_ , Credence wants to say, but he doesn’t dare, doesn’t know if Percival feels the same way, and he’s content enough just to be close.

Credence still cannot believe he’s had nearly a year of this, of having Percival, to be allowed to touch and hold and kiss. He shifts against the loose tangle of their legs to bring Percival closer.

“Good morning,” Credence whispers in the cold white blue light of dawn.

Even in his happiest dreams as he laid cold and hungry in that old wooden church, Credence hadn't dared to ever hope he could be this happy. That he could have something so beautiful, something Mary Lou would've called disgusting and sinful, but her words do not matter anymore. He has this joy now, and he's going to fight tooth and nail to keep it.

“Good morning,” Percival echoes, the timbre of his voice pitched low in the quiet light. The look in his eyes is gentle and unreadable but it warms Credence to the core.

His spine tingles when Percival presses a soft kiss to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and finally his lips. Credence leans into the touch, a silent demand for more, and Percival smiles as he obliges. He deepens their kiss as he pulls him close, large hands tangling in Credence's sleep mussed curls.

For the first time in his life, Credence feels lucky. He's not sure how he's managed to earn this, he certainly doesn't deserve Percival, so it must be luck that he can have something so wonderful. And may luck have it that he can _keep_ this.

Credence looks again at Percival and thinks, _this is it._ He cannot possibly love anyone as much as he loves Percival.

“I love you,” he finally says, for the first time, with his breath caught in his throat and heart willingly laid bare at Percival's altar.

Percival pauses and stares back, unreadable and silent for an infinite stretching moment. Just as Credence's stomach begins to plummet in a rocky descent towards his knees, Percival blinks. All the breath rushes out of Percival in a gusty sigh, as though some great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. His smile is light and warm and Credence has never seen him look so luminescent.

“I love you so much, sweetheart,” Percival breathes.

Credence breathes, deep and shuddering. “Darling,” he murmurs, and leans in again.

-

The first time Credence sees Theseus Scamander after everything, he almost hexes him out the door. _He_ had walked away with barely a scratch and yet here lies Percival, in a magically induced sleep, his body mangled and shredded and barely clinging on to life.

_You were at my wedding_ , he wants to snarl. _You were Percival's best man. You were his best friend. I trusted you to keep him safe. How could you let him walk knowingly into harm like this? Why couldn't you save him?!_

Credence doesn't realize he had screamed all of these things out loud until he comes back to himself to feel strong hands holding back his shoulders and Newt muttering in his ear. His fingertips are smoking grey and nearly dissipating, translucent ether in the bright light of the room.

“You're alright,” Newt is saying softly. “Come back to us. You're alright.”

Theseus is wide eyed and frozen still, looking as though he's been struck and there's the heavy weight of shame in Credence's chest for having lost control. He knows this is personal for Theseus too. He lost his wife to Grindelwald, and unlike Percival, there is no chance of Leta coming back.

All of the fight leaves Credence’s body in a rush, and he slumps against Newt, exhausted and regretful. He can barely look at Theseus, he’s so ashamed of himself. He flinches when he feels Theseus’s hand on his shoulder, gentle despite every horrible thing he just said.

“I’m sorry, Credence,” Theseus says, and Credence can hear the heavy weight of tears in his voice. “We should’ve been more prepared. Our intel was wrong. He had more supporters than we could’ve accounted for. There were too many of them, and by the time we realized that, it was too late. Percival nearly died to save me and—”

“Stop,” Credence says tonelessly.

He doesn’t want to hear the details again. He doesn’t want the hear again of how Percival took Cruciatus after Cruciatus from Grindelwald’s followers just so Theseus could have the chance to send his Patronus to warn MACUSA. How Percival and Theseus’s best Aurors lay dead and dying around them. How it had taken four minutes for the Aurors to descend on Grindelwald’s hideout, but by that point, it was nearly too late. How Percival was already bleeding out and Grindelwald was standing over him, laughing, “Still can’t hold yourself in a duel against me, Percy,” even as he was surrounded by a dozen Aurors and a dozen more rounding up his followers. How Grindelwald had cackled as he Apparated away despite the desperate wards the Aurors cast trying to contain him, gone to the wind once more.  

Credence had seen the Pensieve of Percival’s memories when Seraphina had offered. He had watched every second of the battle, had suffered every moment of pain with Percival. Had listened to every vile word drip from Grindelwald’s mouth, every taunt made about Credence to rile up Percival, every threat he made to anger him. Had seen every slice he carved into Percival's body, the gleeful Incendio that burned Percival's leg to ash, the curse that stabbed like a spike through Percival's eye.

Credence had watched as Percival fought to the very end, until he could fight no more, wand hanging loose in his bloody dripping hand, half blinded and wild with agony. Had thrown up afterwards when the memory threw him out of the Pensieve basin as his husband finally lost consciousness.

It is day ten and Credence thinks, _this isn't fair._ How could they have survived Grindelwald the first time, found each other again against all odds, only to come to this? How is one man powerful enough to take everything from them, again and again?

-

“Okay, that's it for tonight,” Mr. Graves says, and with a flick of his wand, the silvery corporeal wolf of his Patronus disappears.

“I can go for longer,” Credence protests. He thinks maybe with a few more tries, the little wisps of smoke coming from the tip of his wand can solidify just a bit more.

Mr. Graves shakes his head, _no._ “You're getting tired, Credence. Besides, it's very late. We’ll continue the lessons on Friday.”

Credence sighs and nods, pocketing the new wand that feels overly heavy and burdened with too much purpose. It still feels odd to be told he can perform _magic_ now, something that was once not only a sin, but something vile and terrible and to be feared and eradicated.

“Summoning a Patronus is not a simple spell,” Mr. Graves says, tucking his own wand away. “You've made a lot of progress and you should be very proud of yourself. I didn't even learn that spell until my fourth year in school, and you're learning just months into your lessons. You’re doing very well.” The smile curving his mouth is proud and it heats up Credence's chest alongside his cheeks.

“T-thank you, Mr. Graves,” Credence murmurs, mentally berating himself for stammering. He always seems to be overly nervous around Mr. Graves, and any hint of approval and affection from his mentor is enough to send his heart galloping. _Silly boy_.

“Just Percival when we're out of work,” Mr. Graves reminds him, Summoning their coats from the rack by the door.  

“Okay, Mr. Graves,” Credence replies with a lopsided smile.

The answering frown that melts almost immediately into an affectionate grin is devastatingly handsome, and Credence doesn't know how he manages not to melt into the floor. He barely realizes they've been standing in the middle of Mr. Graves—Percival's office staring at each other for a long stretch of moments until Percival clears his throat and says gruffly, “let's get going.”

“Let me buy you dinner,” Credence blurts out by the door. He bites hard on his tongue, not only for saying something so silly, but for wording it so inelegantly too. “A-as a thank you,” he tries to amend belatedly, “for teaching me magic.”

Percival is frowning again, and Credence can feel flaming heat rising in his cheeks. Percival is going to say no, he's so stupid, he's so awkward, of course Percival has better things to do than to waste more time on him—

“Okay,” Percival finally says, and before Credence could even blink in surprise, Percival is adding with a rakish grin, “but I'm paying.”

“I'm supposed to be the one thanking you,” Credence protests.

“You don't have to thank me, Credence,” Percival replies. “But I would love to take you to dinner.”

They end up in a little no-maj greasy spoon by Union Square, the only thing that's still open at the late hour, ordering beef jelly sandwiches and hamburgers and French fries. Percival insists that Credence tries a root beer float, which proves to be the most delicious thing Credence has ever tasted. The sweet flavor of the soda and ice cream is only enhanced by the way Percival seems to stare fixedly at his mouth as Credence licks the taste from his lips.

Conversation is easy with Percival, Credence finds. They carefully skirt around the memory that the last time Credence sat in front of Percival at a diner was when Grindelwald had worn his face. Instead, they talk about everything and nothing from Credence's misadventures with Newt’s niffler to Percival’s Aurors’ latest blunders.

Talking settles Credence's nerves, even as his cheeks heat up every time Percival catches him staring for too long. Percival is very handsome when he smiles, Credence notices for the upteenth time, and the smiles seem to come a lot easier and far more often when they're out of the office.

They don't realize it's New Year's Eve until they leave the diner, full on good food and warm with good company. The street is full of revelers gathering in Union Square and they walk past many a cheerful couple celebrating the end of a decade.

Credence looks after them with envy until he can take it no longer and tears his eyes away. He dares to edge closer to Percival in the icy cold night until they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, startling when he feels the warm press of Percival’s hand on his back.

“Would you like to go see the New Years Ball drop?” Percival asks suddenly.

Credence nearly stumbles over his feet if not for Percival’s steadying hand. “I-I would love to,” he stammers.

He had never had the chance to see something like that before, certainly not while he was living with Mary Lou. She had proclaimed such blatant displays of revelry and rampant public alcoholism to be shameful and sinful. But Credence wants nothing more than to see the celebrations now, if only to spend a bit more time in Percival’s presence.

Percival pulls them into a dark side street. With enigmatic smile, he Apparates them away and they reappear on a empty rooftop directly over Times Square. To their left is the enormous glowing iron sphere perched atop a pole above the celebration.

Credence grips the ledge of a carved stone parapet as he leans over the low wall to see below. He can see hundreds—no, thousands of people gathered in the square, getting ready to count the old year away.

When he turns back to Percival, he’s watching him quietly, expression as unreadable as ever. Credence wants to edge closer, to do something courageous, something he’s wanted to do for a long time, but he’d never been brave enough.

“I had a very nice night, Percival,” Credence finally mumbles into the soft silence of their rooftop, away from the din of the excited crowd, and he could kick himself for saying such a silly meaningless thing.

But Percival is smiling gently, his eyes warm in the dim light. His mouth curves around his words, “me too, Credence.”

“It's almost midnight,” Credence says, just as the revelers below them begin counting down from _ten, nine, eight_.... His heart is beating so hard in his chest, the booming thud of it is all he can hear. It fills up his ears, static with the roaring rush of blood and he thinks Percival can hear it too, it’s so loud. _Seven_.

“Please tell me I'm not reading this wrong,” Percival breathes as he steps closer. _Six_.

_Five_. Percival is so close now, they’re almost chest to chest. Credence is sure he can hear the stuttering thump of his heartbeat and feel the warmth of his heated cheeks. _Four_. Percival’s palm is rough where it touches the line of his jaw, thumb sweeping along the curve. _Three_.

“You’re not,” Credence whispers, leaning in to close the space between them. _Two_.

_One_.

-

Credence is going to be forever grateful for Tina’s unwavering presence beside him at the end. Her hand is an anchoring weight between his fingers, and she doesn’t protest when he squeezes too tight.

The familiar halls of St Agatha feel infinite, the white walls on either side closing in slowly until Credence feels as though he’s about to be crushed. He feels like choking. The breath runs thin in his lungs, and he can barely gasp enough air to keep from feeling lightheaded. He feels as though he’s walking towards the gallows, and he almost laughs. He chokes down the swelling hysteria, knowing if he starts laughing, he’ll never stop until the tears come.

He’s going to have to start thinking of this as the first day he’ll be without Percival, Credence realizes as they approach the door at the end of the hall.

Lancelot Graves is already there, and any hope of having more time with his husband immediately flies out of the window, leaving Credence devastated. Lancelot is leaning over Percival’s bed, obscuring part of it from view, and Credence’s blood runs cold.

The thought that _they had already started_ before he got to the hospital angers him, and his blood shifts from frozen ice to livewire hot with rage. He won’t even get to say goodbye. They’re going to take this from him too.

_How dare they_ , Credence thinks, _keep_ taking _from him._

All Credence has ever known is people who take, take, and take, and here they are, taking the most important person away from him, and there is nothing Credence can do about it.

He can feel himself slipping into the grey, his fingers numb and creeping translucent black. He’s fraying apart into wispsmoke, and all he wants to do is hurt. He wants to hurt as much as they’ve hurt him. As much as they’ve hurt Percival.

“ _Credence!_ ”

Tina’s desperate cry draws him back to reality before he can fly apart, and he barely realizes how terrifying and insane he must look, hackles raised and teeth bared, hands frozen clawlike at his side, talons poised to attack. Tina is standing in front of him with fear in her eyes and tears in her voice.

But her steady hands are anchoring on his shoulders as Credence slowly comes back to himself, and he slowly releases the breath he doesn't realize he's holding. Everyone in the room is staring at him.

There’s Lancelot looking at him with fear, and Dr. Egol with alarmed fascination. Seraphina is staring at him with a blank stoic expression, arms crossed over her chest, and Queenie’s eyes are wide with shock, small hands covering her open mouthed gasp. Crowded around Percival’s bed is Newt with wand in hand, and Theseus wide eyed and more than a little shocked, with a protective hand on Percival’s shoulder. Percival, who is—

Percival who is sitting up in bed. Percival who is the only calm looking person in the room, sitting serenely against his mountain of pillows, smiling gently at Credence, his mouth curved with amusement and his good eye shining with pride. Percival who is _awake_.

Credence’s knees nearly buckle from under him as he stumbles numbly forward. He doesn’t believe what he’s seeing, this must be a dream, he must still be in bed curled up under the covers dreading the day. He must be hallucinating, this isn’t real, he shouldn’t get his hopes up. It's been sixty days, how can Percival be awake now? Credence doesn’t know if he can survive if this is all just an elaborate apparition conjured up in his own mind, a vision born of desperation.

His foot knocks clumsily into the metal frame of Percival’s bed, and the jarring pain of his toe dispurses his fugue slightly. He reaches with shaking hands for his husband, and the first touch of their fingers bring tears, hot and prickling at his eyes.  

“This is real?” Credence asks, needing to know as the tears start dripping down his face.

“Yes,” Percival says. His voice is rough from disuse, little more than a croak, but it's the most beautiful sound Credence has ever heard. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Credence wants to say something—anything, but all he manages is a wet hiccough. Percival's smile widens as he twines their fingers together.

“Were you going to fight everyone in the room for me, my love?”

Credence doesn't reply, can't reply. He swipes a rough hand along his cheeks, trying to wipe away the unstopping tears as Percival laughs quietly and strokes his thumb under Credence's eyes to help.

“But I'm so ugly now,” Percival says, his smile turning lopsided, motioning at the scarred hollow of his missing eye. “Not much left to fight for. I know you were only with me for my dashing good looks,” he quips and Credence knows he has his husband back.

“Be _quiet_ ,” Credence finally growls, hiccoughing a small laugh through his tears. “Are you still hurting?” he asks.

“No, not anymore,” Percival replies.

“Good.” Credence hits the top of Percival’s arm with a soft smack, and punches him lightly there for good measure. “That’s what you get for scaring me like this.”

Percival laughs again, and uncaring of their friends in the room with them, he pulls Credence in for a long kiss.

+

“I'm sorry, my love,” Percival says a week later in the bright morning light of their kitchen. He shuffles in from their bedroom in a hobbling limp, still getting accustomed his new wooden leg.  

Credence startles, nearly dropping the kettle. “What for?”

“He got away,” Percival replies, and Credence can hear the strained tightness of his voice. “I still can't defeat him and he got away and I've failed y—”

“ _No_ ,” Credence interrupts sharply. “You didn't fail. And you certainly didn't fail me. You did all I asked you to do.”

He moves away from the stove to stand with his husband. Percival's cheek feels warm beneath his hand, trailing his fingers along the stubble there, tracing along the scar over his eye, and he thinks of how _close_ he had come to losing this. His heart clenches painfully in his chest.

“You came back to me,” Credence murmurs. “And that was all I wanted. Whatever comes after this, we’ll figure it out together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr:  
> [pineapplebread.tumblr.com](http://pineapplebread.tumblr.com)


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